He watched her from the corner of the Leaky as she ordered yet another Ogden's. How many had she had in the span of an hour? Four? Five? It was hard to tell through the throng of people on, oddly enough, a dreary Wednesday evening.

The bartender said something before begrudgingly pushing yet another glass over the counter to her.

The Golden Girl.

They worked together now. At the Ministry. She avoided him. They avoided each other. Partially due to the myriad horrible names he had called her, and his bullying throughout their school days. The other part due to the fact that the Weasel, her husband, also seemed to carry a chip on his shoulder towards him.

Draco Malfoy watched as she put the glass to her lips, closed her eyes, took a deep breath and threw it back in a single motion.

He narrowed his eyes as the bartender made his way back over and spoke to her in a heated manner. He couldn't hear what he was saying, but he saw her put her hands up in an "I surrender" motion before crossing her arms on the bar and lying her head atop them.

A brief flash through the windows drew Draco's attention. The damned reporters.

Still, over ten years later, none of them had really been left alone.

Potter bore the brunt, of course, but Granger and Weasley were also consistent targets. As was he. He could count the number of times a year a reporter insinuated themselves in his path and asked about his father. Or the Dark Lord. Or the War.

Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban, where he belonged.

His mother had left his father, met an Italian wizard, and preferred to live off the coast with him.

And he…

He spent years dismantling the systems that were instilled in him. The vile, racist ones. While he had gone along with the eugenic blood plot, he had never felt right about it. As evidenced by him refusing to betray Potter to his sadistic aunt, also in Azkaban.

Hopefully for the rest of her bloody life.

More flashes came from the window.

Draco's jaw twitched and he got up, pushing his way through the throngs of people drinking and socialising until he was standing next to the empty bar stool to the left of Hermione Granger.

Her head was down, in her hands. Was she sleeping?

"Granger," he started, speaking to her. She didn't move.

"Granger, this is…not a good look."

No movement.

"Granger!," he said more forcefully this time, his hand darting out to her shoulder of its own accord.

Immediately, she shot up, eyes searching about wildly. She looked genuinely terrified and he drew back, putting his hands up.

"m-Malfoy?," she started, through her alcohol-fueled haze.

"Granger. There's reporters," he said, pointing to the window.

Hermione turned, her whole body rotating on the stool. She managed a half-hearted, half-lidded smile and wave to the window.

"They can fuck right off," she said, twisting back to her bar. "I want another." She motioned to the bartender, who rolled his eyes, and walked away.

"I hate to break it to you, but you are thoroughly and utterly pissed."

She swiveled to him on the stool, then. Slowly. She didn't mean it, but it had been so slow that it was quite comical and he had to bite his lip to not laugh at her.

"Shall I call the…your…husband?"

He had to stop himself from calling Ron a Weasel. They were too old for that sort of thing anymore.

"My husband is the reason I am out drinking alone, so…in a word…no."

Before Malfoy opened his mouth she hit him with, "Why don't you go enjoy your night your way, and I'll enjoy mine…mine." She turned away from him and back to the bar, nearly sliding off her stool in the process.

For fuck's sake she was pissed. Draco debated what to do. She was either going to give the reporters a regretful photo opportunity, get herself splinched, or worse. They weren't friends; they weren't even friendly…but he still wasn't going to leave her at a bar by herself, completely incapacitated.

"He says I'm damaged," she continued, out of nowhere.

"Damaged?," he started, stunned. "Who?"

She shrugged, her eyes glassy and unfocused. "Me."

Malfoy sighed. "No. I'm asking who said that to you?"

"Ron."

He looked at her, sadly. His hands involuntarily clenched at his sides. He didn't like the idea of the Weasel saying something cruel to her. She had obviously been through a lot during the War. And was apparently still dealing with her own demons. It had left none of them without scars.

"Also…he blames me for not being able to have children, and he says it's my fault."

Draco eyed the stool next to her and slowly sat down. He was unsure why, but he felt a sudden, protective surge towards his old classmate. Perhaps it was that they had somehow trauma bonded; all of them, their actions scrutinized, photographed, documented mercilessly even though the war had ended years ago. They had all shared that same heaviness unwanted fame of a certain sort had brought.

"He says I'm damaged because…" her voice trailed off and she bit her lip, turning away and trying to flag down the bartender again.

Suddenly remembering something, Draco reached into his pocket. He still had it. Good.

He always carried a tiny vial of Sober Up for himself when he went out drinking for this very reason. While he had no allegiance to the Old Ways anymore, his mother would throw a fit if she saw a picture of her drunken and debauched son in the Daily Prophet.

He flagged the bartender down. "Blishen's, neat." Assuming it was for Draco, and not Hermione, he poured and placed it in front of Draco. He slid it over to Hermione, who raised her eyebrows in amazement, as though he had just given her the most expensive present in the entire known universe.

"I'm only giving this to you because I've got Sober Up, Granger. Which you're going to take."

She nodded and shrugged again, her eyelids fluttering closed as she rather unsuccessfully reached for the glass, but was eventually able to grasp it.

Suddenly, his hand was wrapped around her wrist.

"Sip." He commanded.

She rolled her eyes dramatically at him and for a brief moment he was afraid they'd get stuck at the back of her head, as pissed as she was.

Hermione sighed and took a sip. She then turned back to him.

"Malfoy…do you think I'm damaged?"

Her question unnerved him. It was truly too intimate of a question for her to be asking of him, seeing as they were not friends. Of course, there was a general familiarity, and a bond of sorts that existed since they had been through the War and come out the other side, but he was not a confidante. Not a friend.

"Granger, I have no idea what you're talking about, but no. I don't think you're damaged. I think you're the same arrogant, swotty little Gryffindor you always were. In slightly better clothes."

She looked at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. The corner of his mouth quirked and he was watching her amusedly make a complete and utter arse of herself.

"Perhaps you can tell that to my husband."

He could tell she wanted him to ask.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know. He gritted his teeth.

"Why has he called you that?"

The smile she had from laughter faded her mouth into a hard line. Her eyes became harder, almost resentful.

"I lied to him. For years. And then one day I didn't want to lie anymore. And he couldn't handle it."

Draco's eyes narrowed. She wasn't making any sense. Lied about what?

Hermione glanced around nervously, as if afraid someone would overhear them, but it was far too noisy in the crowded pub for that. She made a 'come closer' motion with her hand, and Malfoy leaned in, conspiratorially.

"I can't talk to Ginny about it, or Harry. There's no one I've told. But…I think I can tell you…maybe? Because you can't have less respect for me than you already do. And maybe…then I won't…feel so bad about it."

"Granger-" he started softly, leaning forward on his forearms.

"I haven't come from a shag in about ten years," she blurted, fairly clumsily. "I never have with Ron, though I faked it since we got together." She ran her finger around the rim of the glass. "He says I'm broken…damaged…", her voice choked on a sob. "And, it's because of…him."

Malfoy sat back, as if burned.

"Weasley?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No, him. The first one."

Malfoy's eyebrows knitted together. "I'm not following, Granger."

She leaned in again, her voice no more than a whisper. In fact she grabbed his head, pulled him to her and spoke directly into his ear. "No, the Snatcher. Scabior."

An unwanted wave of memories suddenly tumbled over him. He was instantly back…back at the Manor. Back when it was decorated darkly. And it housed Death Eaters. Back when he was frightened every single day of his life for himself, his family and all his friends. When nothing made sense and everything turned on itself. When he left her to be tortured by his aunt. When he realized they were no longer safely at school; that people could get hurt and even die.

Scabior.

He hadn't heard that name in years.

A dark man, a strong wizard with a sadistic streak. His father's age, and now, rightfully imprisoned along with his father.

He had forgotten all this, of course. Or perhaps blocked it out.

It was coming back to him now.

Hermione lay writhing on the floor after being tortured by Bellatrix. He had lied about Potter because he knew what his family was doing wasn't right. And he didn't want to go along with it. He hadn't known she was being tortured so badly, or he would have similarly tried to protect her, as he had Potter. He remembered his father giving the girl to the Snatcher as payment for services rendered. They had doubted she would survive three rounds of Cruciatus and the searing slur burned into her flesh.

And, in an instant, he was back on the barstool, and Hermione Granger was staring at him.

"Malfoy?," she started, eyeing him warily.

He was certain his face had lost all colour and his body broken out into a cold sweat. He wanted to tell her he was sorry about it. He had wanted to for years, but the right time never came.

"Granger, I-"

She waved him off. "It's ok, I already know. You weren't like them, even back then. We all knew that." She took another drink.

He was comforted, marginally, by her words. As he let his mind venture further, down the dark path she had woven for him, he felt himself seething in anger as he imagined what had happened to her when she left the Manor.

He tensed his jaw. "What did he do to you?"

She looked at him, a little surprised. Then, a deep scarlet shame covered her cheeks as she looked at the ground.

"You know, I'm not exactly certain myself anymore."

His hands balled into fists under the lip of the bar.

"He….wasn't particularly nice to me. But I ended up…oh I don't even know," she said, resignedly.

He let out an angry breath of air.

"Tell me, Granger."

He made a mental note to find the man and dispose of him properly. The bartender caught his eye and Malfoy signaled another drink.

When it was placed in front of him, he took a swig before using his index finger to slide it over to her. It burned its way through his insides.

"Tell me," he said again, his voice softer.

Her head wobbled back towards him, and then away, as she looked off, almost as if into the distance.

"He took me the first few times. It hurt. I had n-never…I mean," she looked down at her drink and toyed with it for a moment before continuing.

"After that I don't know what happened…I…well…I wanted to stay alive…,"

Draco thought he should say something, but decided to let her speak at her own pace.

"One day it stopped hurting." She worried her lower lip and then spoke.

"I let him and he…was…good at it," she said, flushing with hot shame. "H-he showed me how to…to…," she looked down at the drink again.

"I started…wanting it…all the time…He taught me so many things, and it felt so good…but not only in the…normal way."

He exhaled slowly, his teeth clenched together.

"I didn't know there were other…ways," she stumbled over the word, "…places…to do that…and I…"

Hermione reached for the drink and took a smaller sip, resting the glass at her lips.

"I think I liked that even more."

Draco was breathing faster now, his hands clenched so painfully into fists he was afraid he'd have bruises.

"He would say things…the most vile, disgusting….degrading things…and it would make me…I'd…," she blushed, looking down at the glass and rolling it between her hands.

"And he would push me…make me do things I didn't want to…that I-I didn't think my body could even handle…and humiliate me all the while."

She exhaled briefly, seemingly letting go of some of the monstrous accumulation of stress she had been holding onto.

"And I'd be… lying there…like a fool, begging him. Wanting it…wanting him…wanting all of the things he was doing, and enjoying every minute of it."

She set the glass down.

"He stopped casting the spell on purpose, because he could, and I fell pregnant…I think he wanted to torture me more, and tie me to him forever. But, after they recovered me…when the War was over, I was able to terminate it."

He had read about this. Her private business smeared through the papers with little regard to her mental state. He always assumed it was Weasley or Potter who had inadvertently left her to deal with their mess.

"I realised awhile back…that I am only able to….to….," she cleared her throat indelicately, "…do that…when it's someone taking me, or making me, or talking to me….," her voice trailed off before continuing.

"And…I suppose…I-I don't know what to do with that."

Draco didn't move, though his eyes roamed her face as she turned back towards him. He gave her a mask because he didn't want to seem pitying, or angry and risk scaring her off. He was grateful she had trusted him so implicitly with this most intimate secret.

She regarded him for a moment, her eyes searching his face for any signs of revulsion. He made sure to provide none.

The edges of her lips curled into a rueful smile.

"I think I feel….you know what? I do feel, better." She leaned back into her drink. "Thank you. There's no one else I can talk to about it."

She took another generous 'sip' and then turned towards him, offering him the glass.

He sat there, stone silent, refusing the glass by not moving. After swallowing thickly, he said softly, "I don't know what you want me to say."

She shook her head. "Don't say anything," she took another drink. "Just listening is enough."

He exhaled audibly, as if doing so could clear the enormous weight of the burden she had shared with him. He ran a hand through his white blond hair, leaned in again to her.

"Granger-,"

"Don't!," her eyes flashed angrily. "Don't you dare apologise. Don't say you're sorry. And don't pity me," she said picking up the glass. "I have pity enough for myself."

She turned back towards him, her eyes soft and shining. "Please don't be different with me. Don't let it change anything."

He could do that. For her, at least. He could do that.

Though he wanted to make a special visit to Azkaban to destroy a certain flamboyant Snatcher who deserved it wholeheartedly.

His mind was still turning her words over and over inside and the revulsion, the sorrow for what had happened to her threatened to engulf him completely. And to bring him back to that horrid place that they rarely spoke about…back to the War.

He reached into his pocket and removed the small dose of Sober Up. He pushed it across the bar top to her.

Suddenly she stood, which made him stand. Her eyes were wild and worried.

"I-I'm sorry, I'm going to be sick!" she stammered, running towards the loo, pushing past people on her way.

He was glad in a way. It gave him a moment to try and process some semblance of order to the thoughts swimming around his head.

What to do now?

He wasn't going to leave her there, inebriated, for anyone to take, use, and discard. That was certain.

They could go out back, avoid the press. That would certainly be preferable. He could bring her back to her flat and try not to pummel the Weasel. But the idea of leaving her there with him, and him calling her names like 'damaged' didn't sit right with him.

Fuck that.

She's coming back to mine.

He decided instantly, pocketed the small vial, and then made his way through the crowd so he could wait for her. Once she was finished, it was Sober Up, then he'd bring her to his city pied-a-terre flat. He briefly debated the Manor, but there were ghosts enough there for both of them. Another time.

He leaned against the wall and waited.

Eventually she exited the loo, her eyes red rimmed and skin looking sallow. She was obviously not expecting him to be there, waiting for her, and let out a little gasp.

"You waited?"

He nodded. "Regardless about what you might think of me, I'll not leave you here in this state."

Her eyes dropped.

"I-am…pretty pissed…I think?" she said, looking up at him hopefully.

He had to fight back a smile. "Yes, you are indeed."

Again, he ran a hand through his hair.

"Look, Granger, come back to mine. I have a flat in the city."

Before she could open her mouth, he wanted to assure her.

"Three bedrooms. You can have your own, and you can wait out having that foul git call you any more names."

He held out the small Sober Up potion.

"I'll get you there safely, in one piece, you can take this, sober up, and be on time at work tomorrow with no one the wiser."

She seemed to consider this a moment as she swayed a bit from side to side on her impossibly high heels.

She nodded at him. "It would be nice to not have to see him now. Thank you."

"Granger," he started, unsure of how to word it. "I want you to know…you have nothing to be ashamed of. Not with me, not with anyone. And if somebody says otherwise…you let me know."

He raised his eyebrows at her as she listened to what he had to say and gave him another, slower nod of acknowledgment.

He nodded back at her, glancing over her shoulder.

"Let's go out the back; avoid the cameras."

"There's a back way?"

He snorted at her. "Of course there is."

She wobbled, her heel dipping into the crack in the floorboards and ended up losing her balance, crashing into his chest as he reached for her to break her fall. It happened so quickly.

Strong arms were on her shoulders and she immediately looked up at him, her eyes wide, knowing this was the closest they'd ever stood.

"Thank you," she said, more breathily than she intended.

After breathing her in for a moment, he took the opportunity to put distance between them, sticking the potion directly in front of her face. She uncorked it and downed it in a single motion, giving him back the empty vial.

He looked at it, made a funny sort of face and threw it on the ground. She laughed as she felt the edges of the alcohol-fueled haze start to lift.

"Steady on, Granger. Out the back," he said, turning her and gently guiding her down the dark hall that led outside.